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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26484202">Snacks and Midnight Blues</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eiiri/pseuds/Eiiri'>Eiiri</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Immortal Shenanigans [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(seriously I finished this at like 4 am), Comfort, Comfort Food, Cute, Domestic, Fluff, Gen, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicky | Nicolò di Genova are in Love, Late Night Conversations, Late Night Writing, NICKY IS A GOOD DAD, Nicky and Joe are adorable, Nicky is a good cook, Nile Freeman &amp; Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Friendship, Religious Discussion, discussion of temporary death, italian is not a real language, midnight snacks, practical considerations of immortality</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:47:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,079</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26484202</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eiiri/pseuds/Eiiri</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Caught up in thoughts of her newfound immortality and the weight of everything it implies, Nile can't sleep, so Nicky--kind and caring soul that he is--makes her something to eat while they have that sort of topic-drifting conversation we all tend to fall into late at night.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nile Freeman &amp; Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Nile Freeman &amp; Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Immortal Shenanigans [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1925383</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>373</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Snacks and Midnight Blues</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nile opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. She had been laying here, <em>not</em> sleeping, for she honestly wasn't sure how long. They were in a safehouse in Europe; she wasn't clear on quite <em>where</em> in Europe—she'd asked on the way and Andy had answered, but Booker had shook his head and said no, not anymore. That was followed by about an hour of mostly Booker and Nicky discussing? Arguing over? Reminiscing about? A few centuries worth of warfare, political marriages, and border disputes, with occasional interjections and corrections from the others. By the time they got to the house, no one had actually gotten around to saying for sure where they were <em>now</em>, and Nile had forgotten to ask again. Wherever it was, the grocer in town—the only local any of them talked to all day—had spoken what Nile was mostly sure was German.</p><p>In the dark, the house was quiet. She could hear the even breathing of the rest of the Old Guard, the distant sounds of nocturnal wildlife, her own heartbeat. It had been a long day. Frankly, every day had been long since she died, the first time. She'd died a few times since then, and would die uncountable times more over the eternity that now stretched in front of her.</p><p>That's what kept her up now. The thought of dying over and over—and, maybe even worse, the thought of living.</p><p>She let out a breath, kicked off the quilt, got up, and padded out to the patio, barefoot on the smooth stone of the pavers. She dropped into a chair, inhaled the cool night air, fiddled with her necklace, and looked up at the sky—fewer stars than in the desert, but more than she grew up with in Chicago.</p><p>Just a couple moments after she'd come outside, deliberate footsteps and the faint metal-on-metal of the door latch grabbed her attention and she looked around to see Nicky leaning around the door, his hair scrunched on one side from sleep.</p><p>“Did I wake you up?” she asked softly.</p><p>He shrugged. “Apparently.”</p><p>“I'm sorry.”</p><p>He waved one hand dismissively and stepped the rest of the way outside. “You alright?”</p><p>She nodded. “Yeah, I'm,” she laughed once, “just having an existential crisis.”</p><p>“That's reasonable.” He smiled a little, a gentle, understanding, but almost teasing kind of grin. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the doorframe. “Wanna talk about it?”</p><p>With a sigh she shook her head. “I don't know. I—don't think I know how to. Yet.”</p><p>“Well, you have time to figure it out.”</p><p>“Yeah, that's part of the problem.”</p><p>He nodded.</p><p>They fell quiet. She looked down at her lap, fist closed around her cross at the hollow of her throat where there should have been a scar. He pushed off from the doorframe. “You want something to eat?”</p><p>She glanced up at him. “Are you...offering to cook?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“What time is it?”</p><p>Smirking, he gestured at the sky. “Night.”</p><p>She leveled a “thanks, Captain Obvious” look at him.</p><p>He chuckled and shrugged. “I have no idea but there's a clock in the kitchen.”</p><p>“Okay.” She got up. He opened the door, bowed her through in front of him, clapped her shoulder as she passed.</p><p>In the kitchen, Nile reached for the light switch—it wasn't even on long enough for the florescent fixture in the ceiling to completely blink to life before Nicky smacked it back off, eyes shut against the moment of brightness. He reopened his eyes slowly, went to rummage through the end cabinet, set a bunch of candles out on the table, lit one with a match then used it to light the others.</p><p>“If you weren't <em>very</em> married, I might think this was romantic,” Nile noted, voice low to not disturb the others still asleep.</p><p>“I really hate florescent lights,” he admitted. “Especially at night. They're so harsh.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, they are,” Nile agreed. “So, what?” she asked. “Am I about to be introduced to <em>proper </em>Italian comfort food?”</p><p>“No.” He leaned on the table. “That would take about six hours, and can only be done correctly by a grandmother, which I am not.”</p><p>“You don't get honorary grandma status after a couple centuries?”</p><p>“Depends who you ask—but no.” He rocked his weight back, opened the fridge and squinted into it against the glare of the internal lightbulb. At least it was incandescent. “As for what I am making, that depends on what Andy bought earlier.”</p><p>“You were there.”</p><p>“I was busy.”</p><p>“You were standing around having your hair played with.”</p><p>“Like I said, I was busy.” He flashed her a playful grin over his shoulder and she couldn't help but laugh a little. He pulled out a block of cheese, nudged the fridge closed with his elbow, set the cheese on the counter along with a downright cute hen-shaped bowl of eggs, reluctantly switched on the—again, incandescent—light over the stove, went through the cabinets, and pulled out a skillet, a sack of potatoes, and a bottle of olive oil. “I'm assuming you like potatoes.”</p><p>“I have never met anyone who doesn't like potatoes, and I used to know a girl who was allergic to them.”</p><p>“She was allergic to them,” he asked as he started rinsing potatoes, “but she still ate them? You're allowed to sit, you know.”</p><p>Nile pulled out a chair and sat in it backwards, nodding as she did. “She's allergic to <em>most</em> food, so it's pretty much impossible for her to avoid all her allergens entirely. She'd pop a Benadryl and dig into a bag of chips. We—” she grinned, then her expression sobered and darkened. “We used to joke that she feared neither God, nor death, nor Lays. And that feels really different in hindsight now.”</p><p>“That's how hindsight works. You live through something and experience it a certain way in the moment, then later looking back with knowledge and perspective you didn't have at the time, your perception changes.” He shrugged. “The...nature of our situation means that we are blessed and cursed with a unique perspective on things like death.”</p><p>She nodded thoughtfully, watched him set the skillet on the stove, pour some oil, click the heat on, twirl a knife from the knife block between his fingers, and start slicing potatoes into it. “Have you ever lost a finger doing that?”</p><p>“Lost one, no,” he chuckled, “but I have cut myself very badly a few times. And not so badly many more. Not often.” He paused. “But I cook often. When you do something frequently enough for long enough, two things happen—you get better at it, so the likelihood of you fucking it up any given time you do it goes down, but you rack up more and more chances to fuck up, so the amount you fuck up overall still goes up over time.”</p><p>“And I figure it's only humanly possible to get so good at things, even with ridiculous amounts of time to practice.”</p><p>Nicky made a non-committal sort of sound through his nose. “Enough time starts messing with what 'humanly possible' even means.”</p><p>“Fair point.” Nile crossed her arms on the back of the chair and leaned her cheek on them. She watched him finish cutting the potatoes then go through a couple drawers until he found an appropriate utensil to stir with. A passing thought made her frown and she lifted her head to rest her chin on her arms instead. “You—you wouldn't have grown up with potatoes, would you? Or did you? I know the factoid about tomatoes being a pretty recent addition to Italian food because they're from the Americas, but I don't think I've ever thought about the history of potatoes until right now.”</p><p>He snorted and reached for the eggs. “I was <em>several</em> hundred years old before I ever ate a potato but now, well,” he started cracking eggs on the side of the skillet, “if by some cruel twist of fate I somehow developed an allergy like your old friend, I, too, would take a pill and just keep eating them. Potatoes are great. I would die for potatoes. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure I have.”</p><p>She blinked at him. “You know what, I'm not going ask. Hang on—allergies. Do we <em>do</em> allergies?”</p><p>“Good question.” He tossed the last of the eggshells into the garbage from clear across the kitchen and Nile applauded softly. He gave a cheeky little bow and went back to cooking, intermittently tending the contents of the pan while he busied himself with the cheese. “Not sure. The idea of allergies is quite new, so none of us would have <em>known</em> if used to have them. Booker used to be prone to summer colds, now he's not. Maybe that was allergies he stopped having, or maybe it was colds. None of us get sick like we used to. Then again, I up and stopped breathing in the middle of dinner one time. After I came back, Joe tried my food to see if it was poised, he was fine. I tried some more, didn't die again. Maybe there was <em>one</em> piece that was poison. I don't know.”</p><p>“Was it—what's that puffer fish called? Fugu?”</p><p>He shook his head. “Some kind of noodles I think.”</p><p>“I <em>really</em> don't like the idea the idea suddenly, randomly not being able to breathe.”</p><p>“Wasn't fun, but not as bad as a lot of ways I've gone, and it's only happened once.”</p><p>“So far.”</p><p>“So far,” Nicky amended. “Don't think it's ever happened to Andy, though, so it's probably not a just a matter of time sort of thing.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Nile drummed her fingers on the chairback. “That's part of what's freaking me out. The idea that anything that's only a matter of time, I'm gonna go through. Some things, I'm okay with that, 'cause they're gonna be <em>cool</em>, but other things….” She gestured vaguely and got up to pace a few steps to find the words. She leaned against the fridge. “Like—I don't know. I don't know what I mean.”</p><p>“I do.” He clicked off the stove, wrapped his hand in the bottom of his shirt, and quickly moved the skillet to a trivet on the counter. “The dread of eventualities, and of watching dominoes fall, knowing there's nothing you can do to stop them at that scale—or, worse, wondering if you could have stopped them if only you'd done it sooner. Get a plate.”</p><p>She guessed at which cabinet held plates, guessed right, and got two. “How do you live with that?”</p><p>“Not much choice.” He took the plates from her. “Try not to fixate on that 'if I'd done something sooner.' If you could have and knew to, you would have. If you didn't, then you didn't, and that's just how things are.”</p><p>“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”</p><p>“Exactly.” He used the same spoon he'd been cooking with to serve, flicked the stove light off, found forks, and he and Nile settled with their food across the table from each other. “Wait.” He got up again, got two wine glasses down, and went hunting through cabinets that did not contain tableware.</p><p>Nile stifled an incredulous laugh. “Are you looking for wine to go with our—” she twisted to actually look at the clock “—three am fancy scrambled eggs?”</p><p>“Yes. Aha!” He'd stretched to open the smaller set of doors set up above the fridge and found a stash of bottles. “I knew there had to be some somewhere—Booker stayed here a while not <em>that</em> long ago.”</p><p>“When, the eighties?”</p><p>“Uh, probably.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes. “At least wine keeps.”</p><p>“Doesn't just keep, it gets better.” He snagged a bottle. “Unless it turns to vinegar.”</p><p>“Right, right.” She leaned on her elbows. “So, what's the best wine pairing for three am fancy scrambled eggs?”</p><p>“Strongest one you can find. Or, in this case, easiest one to reach.” He winked and she snorted a laugh into her hand. After another brief hunt through the kitchen for a corkscrew, he poured them each a glass of wine, handed Nile's to her over the candles, and resumed his seat.</p><p>Just before taking a bite, she stopped. “Do you wanna say grace?”</p><p>Already chewing, he held up his fork in a shrug, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the question.</p><p>“I'll take that as a 'no.'”</p><p>“I stopped particularly caring a long time ago. You're welcome to, though.”</p><p>“Nah, I—actually….” She clapped her hands together, grinning, and in one breath quickly rattled off, “God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food, amen.”</p><p>Now Nicky laughed. “That was efficient.”</p><p>Nile nodded, laughing too as she started eating. “That—mm, this is really good—that was painted on the wall of the Sunday school classroom at the church I went to growing up, right next to a mural of Noah's arc and the rainbow and a couple gay lions. I actually left out the last line or two….”</p><p>“There were gay lions?”</p><p>“Whoever painted it gave both the lions manes! They were both boys!”</p><p>He shook his head, chuckling into his wine. “Ecelénte.”</p><p>“It got repainted when I was in high school.” She smiled wistfully between bites. “Replaced it with a bunch of different colored sheep, which was cute, but a lot less cool.”</p><p>Bleary and dragging his feet, Joe appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Good morning.”</p><p>Nicky smiled warmly and returned the greeting through a bite of potato, but Nile clapped a hand over her mouth. “Did we wake you up?”</p><p>Joe shook his head and came to drape himself across Nicky's shoulders. “Went looking for my love, found the edge of the bed first—then I heard laughter.”</p><p>Nicky murmured something Nile couldn't understand and kissed Joe on the jaw—Joe responded in kind, then stole a bit of Nicky's food.</p><p>Nile reached for her wine. “On the one hand, I really oughta learn Italian, on the other hand I'm pretty sure if I could actually understand what you say to each other on a regular basis I would get diabetes from the incessant sweetness.”</p><p>“Learning <em>Italian</em> won't do that,” Nicky said between bites.</p><p>“French is more useful,” Joe noted, then gladly let Nicky feed him some egg.</p><p>Nile pouted. “I don't <em>want</em> to learn French, it has too many vowels, and Booker can fight me.”</p><p>“He absolutely will,” Nicky said. Joe handed him his wine and he continued, shaking his head for emphasis. “But I don't speak what you call Italian. <em>Italian</em> isn't even a language. What you call 'Italian' is <em>Florentine</em>. I,” he put a hand to his chest, or he would have if Joe's arm wasn't in the way, “am and speak Genoese. It is not the same language. Most of the peninsula <em>still</em> speaks different languages from each other. The idea of 'learning Italian' is nonsense.” He took a long sip of wine while Joe smirked into his hair.</p><p>Nile gestured contemplatively with a slice of potato on the end of her fork. “I have seen a map of Italy divided up by regional terms for vagina.”</p><p>“I want that map,” Nicky said decisively.</p><p>“I want it <em>framed</em>,” Joe said, chuckling.</p><p>Nicky shook his head again, stabbed at his last bit of food with his fork, offered it to Joe who took half of it, then ate the rest himself. “I swear, <em>every</em> time a country unifies on paper, everyone forgets almost over night what was there before, no matter how long it was there, and no matter how much in practical terms things haven't changed.”</p><p>“To be fair,” Nile shrugged, glass in hand, “Italy's been around a long time.”</p><p>Both men looked at her flatly and said, as one, “Italy is a newer country than the United States.”</p><p>Nile almost spat her wine. “You're shitting me.”</p><p>“No.” Joe took Nicky's empty plate and fork and put them in the sink while he nursed the tail end of his drink. “You just think it's older because it preserved the history it was built on, while your country has tried very hard for its entire existence to erase the history it was built on—and a fair bit of its own history, too.”</p><p>Nile cringed. “Oof, yeah, good point.” She finished up her food, threw back the last of her wine, and put her own dishes in the sink. “Thank you, Nicky, for cooking.”</p><p>“Happy to.” He stood, stretched, set his glass to be washed, and leaned against Joe.</p><p>“Time for <em>you</em> to come back to bed.” He rubbed Nicky's arm then looked over at Nile. “What are you even doing up?”</p><p>“I couldn't sleep,” she admitted with a downward glance. “Went out for some air. He came to check on me.”</p><p>Joe frowned a little. “Are you alright?”</p><p>She nodded. “Yeah.” Nicky took her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze, she looked up at him and nodded more firmly. “Yeah, I'm okay. Just,” she squeezed his hand back, “needed a snack and a more ancient perspective, I guess.”</p><p>“Ancient?” Nicky echoed, sounding slightly affronted. “I don't think I'm ancient.”</p><p>“Andy's ancient,” Joe countered.</p><p>“She's going on prehistoric, but you are, like, a thousand years old.” She dropped his hand.</p><p>“How old is 'ancient' then?” Joe asked.</p><p>“It's consistently been 'before the middle ages' the last several times I've checked, and we,” Nicky gestured between himself and Joe, “are solidly medieval.”</p><p>“Okay, okay,” Nile laughed. “You're well past antique, though.”</p><p>“We're relics,” Joe said reasonably. “And <em>you</em> are an infant who should really get some sleep.”</p><p>“I should,” she sighed.</p><p>Nicky moved away from Joe just enough to blow out the candles on the table. Smoke curled barely visible in the faint moonlight coming through the window above the sink and the three of them headed back to bed, Nicky hand in hand with Joe on one side, arm comfortably around Nile's shoulders on the other until she turned to her own bed.</p><p>In the dark, the house was quiet. Nile could hear the faint rustle of fabric as Joe and Nicky settled, Andy's even breathing as she slept, Booker's soft intermittent snores, the distant sounds of nocturnal wildlife, her own heartbeat as she drifted off.</p>
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